by Sara Bennett
At least she’d prevented him from saying the fatal words. He hadn’t actually come out and said them to her face. Not yet, anyway. But Eugenie knew that it wouldn’t be long before he did. The duke seemed determined to have her—to own her, like one of his horses. It wasn’t as if he even knew her, not properly anyway, but he was evidently one of those men who made up his mind in an instant.
Eugenie could understand that. She’d done it herself when she’d seen a hat or a shawl she liked. But this was so much more intimate. Sinclair wanted to put her into some little cozy love nest he could visit, with Eugenie waiting patiently, perfectly dressed—or undressed—ready day or night in case he might pop around.
Eugenie knew she would never be able to bear such a hole-in-the-corner sort of existence. And what about when . . . if he grew tired of her and she was left with the truly awful choice of seeking another benefactor? She could not even imagine how one did that. Was there a special employment agency where discarded mistresses went? She tried to picture a line of women in doubtful dresses, their cheeks rouged, waving their handkerchiefs to attract the attentions of another line of gentlemen in need of new mistresses.
She shuddered.
No, far better to do as she’d decided in the lane as he rode away from her, and free herself of the whole mess and start again, this time with a proper plan.
But she would miss kissing him! Being with him was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her.
Her father, sitting beside her in the trap as they bowled along, the horse trotting behind them, gave her a quizzical look. “You’re glum today, Genie,” he said. “What’s up, girl? Was it the letter you received this morning? Not bad news?”
That was another thing. She’d had a letter from Averil asking how her husband hunting was going. I have been perusing The Times—the engagements section—but haven’t seen any news yet. Do tell me what is happening between you and the duke! It was possible Averil was teasing, but maybe she was not. Whenever Eugenie thought she was about to escape the foolish vows she’d made about the duke fate conspired to dig an even deeper hole for her. Now she would have to write back and explain it was all over and the duke had broken her heart.
No, Eugenie thought. She had broken his heart.
“Just thinking, Father.”
“Well, your thoughts don’t seem to be making you very happy, do they? What were you thinking?”
“I was considering my future.”
He chuckled. “Were you now? I’ll tell you something to cheer you up. If we sell the mare for a good price today I’ll buy you and your mother a new dress each. She’s still in low spirits over the twins’ shenanigans with the black dye and a new dress always cheers her up.” He beamed at her. “What do you say, Genie?”
Eugenie knew only too well that there were unpaid bills galore but here was her father wanting to buy new dresses for his womenfolk, to cheer them up. She should remind him of his responsibilities, but what was the point when he’d never listened to her before? It was not as if he was ever going to change.
And suddenly Eugenie longed for a new dress.
“Thank you, Father,” she said gratefully.
He nodded, pleased to have pleased her, and reached over to grasp her in a rough hug. “You’re a good girl, Genie.”
Eugenie wondered if that epitaph would go on her headstone when she was dead and buried. Eugenie Belmont, a good girl. Despite all her good intentions a wayward and wicked thought slipped slyly into her head: Did she really want to be a good girl? If being a bad girl meant kissing Sinclair?
Torrisham, with its golden stone buildings and narrow laneways, was a bustling place, especially on market days. Her father found the horse stalls and set about brushing down the mare and cleaning her hooves. The creature rolled its eyes but managed to control the urge to kick.
“Father, are you sure this is a lady’s mount?” Eugenie said, eyeing it uneasily.
“You’ve ridden her.”
“Yes, but I know what to expect.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of spirit,” he said jovially.
Eugenie was about to say you could have too much of a good thing, when she happened to glance across the market square and spotted a tall and very familiar figure.
“Oh good Lord, it’s him,” she gasped.
“Who’s ‘him’?”
“The duke!”
Her father shot her a curious look, and then followed her gaze. “Ah, Somerton!” he called, as if they were the best of friends. “How do you do? Come to look at the horseflesh, have ye?”
If the duke had been planning to walk past then he could no longer do so without appearing rude. She watched him hesitate, considering his options, but he’d been seen and spoken to and he was not a man to turn and run—even if that was what he quite clearly longed to do.
He strode toward them, removing his hat as he bowed in greeting. Eugenie gave a quick curtsey, avoiding his eyes, keeping just behind her father as if he might save her.
“Sir Peter, how do you do? Miss Belmont, I trust you are well?”
He sounded awkward, and she could see that telltale flush on his tanned cheeks. No doubt he was replaying the scene in the woods, just as she was. Then his gaze slid over the mare, whose tether was in her father’s hand. “You are selling today, I see. Is she any good?”
“A fine lass,” Sir Peter said, enthusiastically. He stepped closer, assuring Sinclair in an undertone that he was only selling because he was a little “light” in the pocket, while Eugenie inwardly cringed. “Does your sister need a new mount? Something with a bit more go in it? I saw her riding a gray gelding last month—looked like it was one step away from dog food, if you don’t mind me being frank with you, Your Grace.”
Clearly Sinclair did mind.
“Lady Annabelle is perfectly happy with her gelding,” he said shortly. “She is not an expert horsewoman.”
“Not like my Genie here then. She can ride anything with four legs. If I had the funds I’d set her up with the hunt. She’d put the rest of them to shame, she would.”
Sinclair’s gaze flickered to Eugenie and away before she could read his thoughts. He probably knew that her father had attempted to join the hunt himself once, only to be refused, and it wasn’t because of his lack of funds but rather his lack of good character.
At that moment her father’s attention was claimed by another buyer, an elderly man who’d brought along his granddaughter, and Eugenie breathed a sigh of relief.
“Do you always participate in your father’s schemes?” Sinclair said quietly, a note of deep disapproval in his voice.
“Terry was busy and Father needed someone to help with the mare,” she said lightly, hoping he’d say goodbye and move on.
Because she knew exactly what he was thinking. She was a hoyden. She could not be expected to behave like a gentlewoman, like his mother or his sister. The curl of his lip said it all. Well, she told herself, let him think what he liked, she no longer needed to pander to his good graces.
Some children ran past, shrieking, and Eugenie spent a number of nervous moments quieting the mare. When she glanced up again Sinclair was still there, only now he was watching her, and his expression was a mixture of puzzlement and regret. Her own hurt and disappointment began to wane.
“I find myself missing your company,” he spoke abruptly, and then seemed embarrassed he’d blurted out the words aloud. His explanation was equally clumsy. “I thought I’d apologized for anything I may have said to upset you.”
“You did, but I find myself wondering how long it will be before you upset me again.”
He frowned. “You are speaking in riddles, Eugenie.”
“Last time we met I had the impression you were glad to be rid of me,” she said.
“There, see! You say exactly what you think when I am surrounded by people
who say what they think I want to hear. I miss your bluntness, Eugenie.”
She laughed, she couldn’t help it. “I never claimed to be diplomatic, Your Grace. I am not to everyone’s taste.”
“You are very much to my taste.”
How could he do that to her? Make her stomach dip like that? Just when she was trying to convince herself she hated him he made her like him again.
He smiled, took a step closer, and she felt the power of his personality. “Do you think we could meet again? If I promise to mind my manners?”
Nervously, Eugenie glanced at her father, who appeared to be engaged in negotiations as to price. Sinclair took the opportunity to move even closer, and his voice grew more intimate.
“I want to set you a dare, Miss Belmont. It must be my turn, after all.”
“I think I am reckless enough, Your Grace, without needing to prove it. I am through with dares.”
“Nevertheless I dare you to meet me at the ruined manor on Goyen Hill. Friday at eleven.”
“I am sorry but I must decline.”
“Are you such a coward?” he growled. “You started this game, Eugenie. It is too late to back out now.”
Eugenie opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, just as her father finished with the elderly gentleman and turned to them with a beaming smile and a handful of cash.
“Now, Your Grace, I’m sorry we couldn’t come to some arrangement about the mare, but such a fine lass was certain to be snapped up. I do have other horseflesh almost ready for sale. Give me a day or two and I’m sure I can find something to suit Lady Annabelle.”
“Father, the duke does not want to buy one of your horses,” Eugenie murmured warningly.
“Thank you, Sir Peter, but your daughter is right. I have no need of a horse. Now, I will leave you to your business. Good day.”
Sinclair tipped his hat again, giving Eugenie a meaningful look as he turned away.
She wanted to run after him and tell him there was no way in the world she was going to meet him tomorrow, but again she was prevented. The elderly gentleman was collecting his mare and Eugenie needed to quietly question him about his granddaughter’s riding skills. Relieved, she discovered the girl was no novice. “She likes a firm hand,” she said quietly and meaningfully, nodding at the mare. “Once she knows who’s in charge she will settle. Oh, and she dislikes bright buckles, so tell your granddaughter to wear plain footwear when she’s riding. And sometimes puddles . . . I think the reflections startle her.”
Feeling more comfortable about the morality of the sale, she was able to spend the journey home worrying about Sinclair and his dare and Averil’s letter and the mess she was in.
Was Sinclair still intending to ask her to be his mistress? All that talk of minding his manners and behaving himself was very well, but did she believe him? Well, he would have to learn that when it came to Eugenie Belmont he had met his match. Husband Hunters Club or not, she refused to be any man’s mistress.
Sinclair finished his soup and nodded for the servants to bring in the next course. His dining table was full tonight with local worthies and friends of his late father come visiting from London. Not exactly riotous company, but a necessary evil for a man in his position and with his social status to uphold. He was the Duke of Somerton and people expected him to throw the occasional lavish dinner. An invitation gave them something to boast about to their friends.
Besides, the lack of stimulating conversation enabled Sinclair to dwell on a subject that was constantly in his thoughts: Eugenie Belmont.
She was beneath him in every way. If he hadn’t known it before then he knew it now, after seeing her at the horse fair acting like a Gypsy, helping her father sell that wild mare to some poor unsuspecting fool. All of that should have given him a distaste for her, and yet it hadn’t.
If anything his passion for her was hotter than ever.
“When will you be coming down to London next, Somerton?”
Sinclair gave the old gentleman some offhand answer. London wasn’t on his agenda; he preferred the countryside. Would Eugenie take up his dare? And if she did, then she must know what he intended. Would that mean she was willing to listen to his proposal after all?
Sinclair knew after the abduction dare that he’d made his move far too soon. He hadn’t been able to help it. He was a man who knew what he wanted. Where was the point in dilly-dallying? Eugenie was that rare jewel, a woman he enjoyed spending time with, a woman he could talk to and who made him laugh. And then there was the wild passion he’d developed for her. He couldn’t remember meeting another like her and he didn’t need to wait about to make up his mind.
He was a duke, he needed a mistress, and Eugenie was perfect.
In Sinclair’s mind the offer he intended to make was absurdly generous. She would have everything she wanted, certainly a great deal more than she had now, and it wasn’t as if she had a great deal to lose. Even so he would be careful with her reputation, such as it was, protecting her as much as he was able. Ensuring her life—and the lives of her family—were as comfortable as possible.
Which reminded him. Belmont Hall was afflicted by damp and rot and probably deathwatch beetle. The Belmonts would find themselves without a home if they didn’t find some way of repairing that hovel. He could see to those repairs; he could even buy them something larger and less drafty. Something at a great distance from himself and Eugenie.
Arrogant he may be, but surely he was not being unreasonable in expecting a favorable answer? Considering all the benefits he was offering. She may be playing coy but he would win her around.
This uncertainty had put him in a foolish lather.
Oh, he had had his amours—what man in his position had not?—but none of them had meant more to him than a passing fancy. These days he was hard-pressed to recall their faces. There was a world of difference between how he felt about them and how he felt about Eugenie Belmont. The only way he could explain his feelings was that he felt himself when he was with her, as if he didn’t have to pretend.
Surely that was reason enough to want to make her a permanent fixture in his life?
He’d begun waking in the night, awash with desire and longing. His body became hard as rock whenever he imagined her beneath him, naked upon his sheets. Sometimes he’d believe he caught a whiff of her scent, the fresh sweet smell of her hair, and his body would react with embarrassing promptness. He was beginning to think he was turning into one of his stallions, so eager to mate that he was liable to leap over fences to find his ladylove.
It might be a form of madness, but he wanted her. He wanted to clasp her in his arms and take her when and wherever the need took him. That was what a mistress was for, after all. He could sit with her in his arms and talk to her, or simply say nothing in companionable silence. And in return for being with him, she could have anything she’d ever wanted.
To Sinclair’s fevered mind it was only a matter of time before Eugenie Belmont gave in to the inevitable.
Chapter 10
By Friday morning Sinclair was up and ready, his temper on a short leash. Annabelle eyed him uneasily over breakfast. He could tell she wanted to speak to him but wasn’t certain how to broach the subject. If it was about her marriage to Lucius he would rather she remain silent, but Annabelle was not one to shirk a conversation just because it may cause difficulties to herself or others.
“I have had a letter from my friend Greta,” she said at last, setting down her teacup on its saucer with a rattle of china.
“Indeed.”
“She lives in Bedfordshire, Sinclair.”
“And you are telling me this because . . . ?”
“Stop it, Sinclair. You are obviously in a bad mood but I will not let it affect me. I am telling you about Greta because I want to stay with her before I am hemmed about by convention as Lucius’s bride-to-be. She has promi
sed me a party and visits to other friends.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I have no objections, Annabelle, as long as your mother and your husband-to-be have none.”
“What has Lucius to say to anything?” she snapped. “We are not married yet.”
“If I remember correctly Greta was always a little unconventional. Perhaps this isn’t the moment to visit her, Annabelle. We do not want a scandal.”
She scowled. “You don’t want me to have any friends. You want me to be miserable, Sinclair.”
“Annabelle, now you are being ridiculous. You will have plenty of friends to see when you go to London. Who knows, you may even make some new ones.”
She rose from the table and fled the room.
Miss Gamboni stumbled to her feet. “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she began, but he waved a hand at her, dismissing her apology.
“Perhaps you could turn her mind in some other direction, Miss Gamboni.”
“I will try, Your Grace.”
He was getting used to such departures from his sister, and he didn’t allow it to bother him for long. He had other matters to mull over.
His paints had arrived from London and he was itching to lock himself away in his attic room and begin painting. He’d already done some sketches of Eugenie from memory, and thought they were rather good. He still had to capture that sweet mischief in her expression, but he thought he could make a start.
Alas, after breakfast, he had to spend some time with his land agent, and then he needed to write several letters in regard to tenants who had asked him for help in the repair of their cottages or stone fences. As he worked he thought about how much responsibility his position placed upon him. For the past ten years he’d lived without complaint, doing as was expected of him, inhabiting his role as duke, not really thinking about what he was becoming.